


i've been saving all my summers for you

by Junkyard_Rose



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Meg Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-31
Updated: 2015-01-31
Packaged: 2018-03-09 18:42:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3260354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Junkyard_Rose/pseuds/Junkyard_Rose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"We can grow not-old together and kill monsters in the rain."</p>
            </blockquote>





	i've been saving all my summers for you

**Author's Note:**

> un-beta'd; warning for possible overuse of brackets.

Meg is unyielding, but soft for a demon; it takes him a long time to learn her, to figure out all her rough edges and still-open wounds, longer than it should have because she doesn’t make it easy for him.

(of course she doesn’t, Meg doesn’t make anything easy for anyone)

Her smile is like a razor blade and he thinks this might be a bad idea, but Castiel has never been one for good ideas.

(He’s still not sure how she survives Crowley; he’s not sure how he himself survived Naomi, so they are a fair pair in regards to that, at least)

(He was meant to be in hiding with the tablet when she found him, dropping into a booth seat next to him at some back-alley diner in a back-water down, smiling at him like she belonged there.

“You promised we’d move some furniture around,” she reminded him, and they’d ended up back at his shitty motel room.)

(Her hair had still looked faintly pink from all the blood that was too stubborn to wash out.)

“What are you going to do with it?” she asks more than once. He doesn’t have to ask what she means by _it._

“Keep it safe,” he tells her. “Keep it hidden.”

He doesn’t tell her that he’d be grateful for her help. He doesn’t have to.

(“I’m sorry,” he tells her. “That I never looked for you. When you were –“

“Whatever,” she interrupts. She doesn’t want his apology. Doesn’t need it.)

“What are _you_ going to do?” he asks her. _Are you going to go after Crowley, are you going to leave once you get bored, are you going to go into hiding, are you going to –_

“Right now, I’m going to ride you like a cowgirl.”

That’s not the kind of answer he wants, but it’s all he’s going to get.

(How do you tell a demon that you’re _worried_ about her?)

He tells her about heaven, sometimes, when they’re lying awake at night, side-by-side because neither of them sleep, and she tells him about her human life, or at least what she remembers of it. More than once he asks why she sold her soul, but she won’t tell him that either.

(It scares him, the uncertainty of the entire situation; he could live like this with Meg for the rest of eternity, or they could be captured and killed by angels tomorrow. He could find Dean and Sam – no, he couldn’t, couldn’t put them in danger, couldn’t face them again after what he did – almost did – to Dean.

(The problem isn’t that they wouldn’t forgive him; the problem is that they _would_ , immediately and without hesitation)

He always has questions for Meg; “What’s your true name?” is one that bothers him for a while, because, true to form, she won’t answer. It feels wrong calling her by a dead girl’s name, until she points out he is wearing a dead man’s skin, a dead man’s coat, a dead man’s shoes.

“Why do names even matter, Cas?” she asks him, Dean’s nickname for him rolling off her tongue in a manner that is almost natural.

“They don’t,” he mutters, mostly to himself, and kisses her to distract himself. He can feel her true form thrashing underneath her skin, threatening to tear the skin open and apart; Meg is inky black smoke and sharp, curling claws, rough leather and sandpaper.

Castiel is bright white light and noise and wind; his wings are made of soft sharpness and space. His voice is static and shattered glass; Meg’s is the feel of a bleeding wound mixed with a snarl.

He comes across a women’s magazine at a gas station with the bright headline, _Opposites Really Do Attract, New Survey Says,_ and he laughs until Meg smacks across the back of the head and tells him he’s causing a scene.

(That night he asks her what they’re going to do. “We can grow not-old together,” she tells him, half sarcastic, “and kill monsters in the rain. How ‘bout it, Clarence?”

He thinks that she’s always telling him jokes, or making him into one, but he never understands them. He never understands _her_.

Frankly, he’s okay with it, because it means seeing her roll her eyes while smiling, just a little, to herself.)

(This won’t last, the casual domesticity they have found, if it is possible to feel domestic when you live in stolen cars and out-of-the-way motels, but they’re making the most of it.

They are.)

 


End file.
